The visual metaphor made her smile.

As they walked into the restaurant, Francesca curled her fingers and felt the softness of Sam’s wool jacket and the hint of powerful muscle just beneath the fabric. Very masculine. Very not her life. Very something she might want to experiment with.

They reached the podium, where the hostess smiled at Sam. “Good evening, Mr. Reese. Your table is ready.”

“A man with his own table,” Francesca murmured. “Wow. If you come here often enough, do you get other pieces of furniture?”

“Sure. Last year they gave me a chair and a sideboard.”

She smiled. “I’m impressed you know what a sideboard is.”

“I’m an impressive guy.”

Sam placed his fingers over hers and squeezed slightly. The soft pressure, not to mention the heat of his touch, nearly made her stumble.

“So you’re confident,” she said as they were shown to a table tucked into an alcove. Several tall, potted plants gave the space a sense of privacy.

Sam released her hand and moved to hold out a chair. As she sat down, she tried to remember the last time anyone had done that for her, and came up with the answer.

Never.

He moved around the table and settled across from her. The hostess put menus on the table and left.

“Always.”

“What if you’re not sure? Do you fake it?”

He leaned toward her. “I never have to fake it.”

“One could think all that bravado was covering up for something.”

“Then one would be wrong.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. Although I can see I’m going to have to be on my toes with you. I’m glad I have a background in psychology.”

“It’s not going to help.”

“You say that because you’re not the trained professional.”

“Sure I am.”

The waiter appeared with a wine list. Sam waited until the server left, then held up the list. “Do you have an interest?”